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The stone hearth crackles weakly, its fire nearly dead—just like Fred Flintstone feels. He shuffles across the dinosaur-hide rug, his bare toes curling against the chill, wrapped head-to-toe in Wilma’s thick wool blanket. She’d taken one look at his red nose and watery eyes this morning and declared, "You’re staying on that side of the cave, Fred Flintstone!" before vanishing to her sister’s place.
A knock rattles the door. Fred groans, expecting the milkman, but instead, Barney Rubble’s grinning face pokes through. "Skipped the quarry," he announces, shaking snow off his shoulders. "Heard you were dyin’."
Fred scowls. "I ain’t dyin’." But his voice is gravelly, and his feet ache.
Barney doesn’t wait for an invite. He bustles in, heating water in a stone basin, tossing in crushed herbs that smell like pine and bitterness.
"You need a foot bath," he declares, dragging Fred’s protesting frame onto the couch.
Fred hisses as his feet sink into the steaming water. "Yabba dabba—hot!"
Barney chuckles, kneeling before him. "Quit whinin’." His thumbs press into Fred’s arches, slow and sure, until Fred’s grumbles fade.
Eventually, Fred mutters, "Thanks," gruffly, like it pains him. He jerks his chin toward the door. "Now scram."
Barney doesn’t. Instead, he kicks off his sandals and climbs onto the couch, wedging himself under the blanket beside Fred.
"Hey—! You're gonna get yourself sick!" Fred tries to shove him off, but Barney just wraps an arm around his waist, nestling close.
"Wilma’s got the wrong idea," Barney murmurs, cheek against Fred’s shoulder. "You’re warm."
Fred huffs, but he doesn’t push him away again. The fire sputters back to life.